


rich with sanction

by notorious



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Internal Conflict, Light Angst, din’s a little lost and cara’s quite an anchor, helmetless Din
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notorious/pseuds/notorious
Summary: The child is gone, Din’s struggling with a personal decision, and Cara won’t leave him to make it alone.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cara Dune
Comments: 15
Kudos: 112





	rich with sanction

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my second attempt at writing these two!! i think i like them (a lot). honestly this was gonna be an attempt at writing smut for these two but it REALLY got away from me. have a lil angst and softness instead. unedited. title from havoc by alanis morissette. enjoy !!

Din doesn’t remember choosing to trust Cara. He remembers the first time he put the child in her arms of his own free will, which he’s beginning to think is about the same thing.

He doesn’t remember when the child became his marker of trust, either, but he figures it’s fitting. A foundling finding a foundling, although Din hadn’t been called foundling in years. You grow out of that sort of thing, he thinks, and become something of whoever found you.

He remembers his helmet didn’t fit right when he first got it. Too big. Knocked his head around and made his ears ring, but all he heard was joy. He remembers chasing after critters, tracking them through forests with the thermal sensor in his helmet, just to see how well he could stay on them. He caught his foot once on the root of a tree, went tumbling. Got that too-big helmet knocked off of his head. Din remembers crying out, desperately scrambling in the brush while wide eyes scraped the landscape for any signs of life. He found none. And then he found the helmet, and as he pulled it back on the shine of tears on his cheeks was hidden. He stopped chasing critters after that. They weren’t worth the risk of being caught without his helmet and never being allowed to put it back on. 

He remembers the men who saved him from the B2 droids, the Mandalorians toting packs that took them to the skies, armor of blue and gray.

It was the colors that became the first sign of safety. “Blue of the ocean,” he was told as a foundling. “Gray of the sky when it rains. Water cleanses a world nearly as well as we do.” Whenever it rained Din took it as a sign that someone was watching him, over him, guiding him so that the Way may grant him _his_ way. When oceans were dark, when waves were thunderous, when whitecaps sprinkled the seas and teased worlds with beauty in danger? Din longed to dive in.

As he grew he looked for blues and grays wherever he went. The little voice in the back of his head told him he could trust those colors with his life. Nothing and no one, however, would replicate the blanket of safety the man who rescued him carried.

He doesn’t know why he’s analyzing his past.

“To protect your heart,” the armorer told him upon fitting his first formal chest plate. “As well as your life.” The plate was a perfect fit, and he’d grown into the helmet. A teenager when he received his first full set of armor, it was constructed primarily of durasteel. Should he wish to don the sacred metal he must earn it; Beskar was growing rare and though its rightful place was in Mandalorian hands it must often be won. Or taken by force.

It took Din longer than he wanted to get used to the weight of armor on his body. Limbs were heavier, motion was impeded. It frustrated him. At fifteen years, where he was used to free range and dexterity, armor set him back. Yet he knew it was an honor to wear the suit of Mandalore, an honor greater than any other he would have for the rest of his life. To put on the armor was a gift, to keep it a privilege. To never remove the helmet before another living being? A creed.

To combat the weight of the armor (and it grew heavier as he acquired Beskar) Din pushed himself to gain muscle. He ran with sand sacks on his back, climbed mountains pulling sleds of scrap metal, swam with ceramic weights anchored to his boots. Din pushed himself until the armor was an extension of his own body. Until it weighed nothing. Until not wearing it felt like someone had peeled off his skin.

And so armor became honor. Determination, strength, pride. And because of the hand that reached down to pull him out of the hutch his parents shielded him in, the armor became hope.

Weapons were the same: once he knew how to wield them they became extensions of his arms.

The IB-94 was a third arm, the Amban sniper rifle a fourth.

Weapons were a part of his religion. And a part of him. Din _was_ the creed.

And then he met the child. Stole the child. And shot Greef, but he came back (thank you, Beskar). Met Cara.

Cara, who sits before him now like this is just another day. Like the helmet hasn’t been up for discussion for a month. And it’s not that she’s pushing him one way or another—she isn’t—but he’s grappling with himself over the creed he grew up with and the information Bo-Katan dropped on him.

 _Children of the Watch are a cult of religious zealots that broke away from Mandalorian society. Their goal was to reestablish the ancient way_.

A cult.

Din had no idea, his whole life.

The _ancient_ way.

The only way he’s ever known. The _Way_ , for all that it’s worth.

He’s spent a month going back and forth between cursing himself for even thinking of deviation and wondering why the hell should it matter any longer.

It shouldn’t, he thinks, and grits his teeth.

They aren’t on Mandalore.

The Tribe is gone. 

Din doesn’t even know why he put the helmet back on after letting Luke take the child.

Habit, perhaps. He felt naked without it, vulnerable, and wasn’t used to people being able to read him. And though he felt he shouldn’t, as soon as the bridge doors slid shut behind Luke he slid the helmet back onto his head.

Covered from head to toe was where he felt safest.

He isn’t sure he’s ready to change that but he can’t let go of the feeling that it may be worth trying.

And he won’t be alone.

“Take it,” he mutters finally. His voice is scratchy, electronic around the edges, filtered through his helmet.

“You’re sure?”

“No,” Din says, “but do it anyway.”

Cara looks at him. She isn’t clear through the visor, she’s darkened as everything else is, but the only mask she’s ever worn is emotional and Din learned long ago how to look right through that.

She’s good at hiding things when she wants to be. She isn’t trying very hard right now. Her eyes hold hesitance, and she isn’t quite smiling. It’s like she doesn’t want to ruin this, mess it up. But there aren’t many ways removing someone’s helmet for them can go wrong.

If he could feel her palms through the metal he’d guess they were warm. Calloused, weathered, but warm. Din stills his breath as Cara lifts the helmet from his head.

He can’t look at her, not yet, not when he’s spent so long looking at her and she’s only actually seen him once. His eyes go to the helmet in her hands. That’s all it is—a helmet. A hunk of metal with a visor and a screen with a readout he can only see from the inside. 

It’s just an object. 

Material. 

Inanimate.

Din exhales heavily, flexing his hands on his thighs. He doesn’t know where to look or what to do.

Cara holds the helmet up to the light and makes a noncommittal noise. “Heavier than I thought,” she says, gently setting the helmet down in her lap. “How do you feel?”

“I—”

When Din looks at Cara he focuses on the color.

Her pauldrons, the gauntlets, the chest plate. The knuckles of her gloves. The accent color of her trousers.

Blue.

Inviting.

Like the ocean, he thinks.

Maybe he never _looked_ for blues and grays in his travels. Perhaps they found him.

It comes to him in a flash—being laid out flat on his back in the dirt, eyes barely able to stay open, blinking slowly as his ears rang and his heart raced; blaster fire from all sides, the crash and crumble of blown buildings; he couldn’t move; and _her_ , the last thing he remembers before he succumbed to unconsciousness; Cara, above him, crouching down, a hand reaching out to pull him up.

When they met on Sorgan she was extra weight on his quest to save the child. She was assertive, strong, and unwilling to back down. When she taught the villagers to wield staffs against the Klatooinian raiders Din saw a warrior.

When he returned to bring her with him to liberate Nevarro from the Imperial remnant he saw hunger. Excitement. 

By then she was weightless, an extension of Din’s operation. An extra pair of arms, set of armor, loaded blaster that felt as light as his own. Cara had become a part of his life he would be devastated to lose. 

Every time their paths crossed, Cara was a very specific certain something. Something Din knew well. A word he does not like to use lightly because of all he associates with it.

With everything they’ve been through, however, and all the times Cara has lived up to and surpassed that one special word, she’s earned it.

Ever since Sorgan there has been hope when Din was hopeless.

And she’s sitting right in front of him.

“—feel fine,” he says.

When their eyes meet Din tries not to falter, tries to do her the honor of holding her gaze, but he needn’t worry about having to try. Looking Cara in the eye is easier than he’d have thought.

For she isn’t just a warrior.

Nor is she just a friend.

With the child gone— _safe_ —and so many questions Din can’t answer for himself, Cara Dune is his only hope.

**Author's Note:**

> if you’ve made it this far come bother me on twitter @tatooinenights or somethin


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